


IvanSmerdCrossdressing.rtf

by PunishedPyotr



Category: Brat'ya Karamazovy | Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Crossdressing, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Half-Sibling Incest, Historical Dress, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, cardinal fanfic sins, reupload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunishedPyotr/pseuds/PunishedPyotr
Summary: Ivan falls for the "traps aren't gay" meme.





	IvanSmerdCrossdressing.rtf

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm thinking about moving to a daily update schedule? guess there's no point in asking here since it'd be the metal gear tag i flood and no one's been commenting on the non-mgs fics anyway
> 
> aireyv's original author's note said they wrote this for a friend but apparently they're not friends anymore :? but aireyv said to write here:  
>  _Sofiko, your legacy lives on._

God only knew how it all got started.

A good guess who be to say that it all started with Ivan, but that wasn’t entirely true, was it? All things considered, Smerdyakov was… well, Smerdyakov, in a word. But this particular incident could be blamed almost entirely on Ivan Karamazov, and more specifically on his middle-of-the-night desire to give Smerdyakov a good beating.

Of course, when Ivan (rather impulsively) decided to follow through with this desire, he wasn’t really expecting to find, in Smerdyakov’s room in the servants’ cottage, Smerdyakov himself - that is, he _was_ expecting to find Smerdyakov, after all, he was going there specifically to see him - but he wasn’t expecting to find Smerdyakov in a _dress_.

And he looked _damn_ good in it, too. As a matter of fact, when Ivan walked in, his first impression was that that there was a woman. A very _pretty_ woman. But it wasn’t. It was Smerdyakov, and at the moment he was gazing levelly at Ivan, as if daring him to ask what was up with the dress.

It was a nice dress. French fashion, although slightly outdated. It was a mess of ribbons and folds, had a full, ankle-length skirt with a train a yard long, or perhaps longer… all in eye-catching blues and some reds; the bodice was squarely cut, low enough to reveal the distinct lack of breasts, although speaking of curves, his waist was noticeably shapelier than usual. It was all topped off with a lacy shawl over his shoulders and a hat with yet more ribbons on his head. And… was he wearing rouge, too?

Ivan continued staring.

Eventually, Smerdyakov accepted the fact that Ivan wasn’t going to, at any point, do anything other than stare dumbfoundedly unless prompted, and said, “Did you need something, sir?”

Ivan blinked several times before answering in a vague sort of voice, “A-An explanation. Explain yourself,” he added more forcefully.

“What’s there to explain, sir?” Smerdyakov said, still looking at Ivan, completely unruffled. “Sometimes, sir, I like to dress up and look nice. Is that so wrong?”

Ivan had to stop himself from shouting _Yes_ , partially because he didn’t want to be heard by Grigori and Marfa, and partially because he knew that Smerdyakov would argue with him if he answered that way… or answered at all, really, so Ivan decided that in this situation, it was better to stay silent.

“And anyway, sir, I do think that I look very nice,” Smerdyakov continued through Ivan’s silence, turning around to examine himself in a full-length mirror that Ivan had not noticed before (or even knew existed in the first place). Smerdyakov adjusted his hat, sure to keep an eye on Ivan behind him in the reflection. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Ivan still refused to answer, although the reasoning right now was leaning more towards the fact that his mouth was feeling very, very dry. And his legs felt very, very weak. Conscious of the fact that it was probably going to end up being a bad idea, Ivan sat down heavily on Smerdyakov’s bed, the only sittable surface in the room, and took a deep, shaky breath. Smerdyakov turned around.

“I suppose, sir, that if it weren’t so late, I could go out and everyone who saw me would take me for a woman.”

“…you’re missing a… few key things.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I, sir?” Smerdyakov said, stepping much closer to him, picking up Ivan’s hands, and placing them on his own chest in almost one movement before Ivan could stop him. Ivan flinched. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Oh, God…” _Where to begin…_

“God, sir?”

“N-No, He has nothing to do with this…” That much was obvious.

“You think, sir, that it would be better not to talk about Him at all right now,” Smerdyakov said, gloved hands still over Ivan’s, now leading them over the soft - but not as fine as it had first looked in the dim light - fabric of the dress to where the skirt gathered into drapes at his hips. “I agree, sir. We have better things to discuss tonight.” If it hadn’t been for where their respective hands were, there would have been absolutely nothing untoward about the way he had just said what he had just said.

“Why do you do this to me?” Ivan said abruptly. (Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered why he didn’t just pull his hands away from Smerdyakov’s hips and follow through on his original plan of giving him a good thrashing.)

“Do what to you, sir?”

Ivan’s face twitched. “This… sort of thing. Teasing me, or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

“Maybe you’re just reading into it too much, sir,” Smerdyakov said with a smug little smile.

“I am _not_ \- you are definitely doing this on purpose, you have to be. No one normally acts like this, I’m certain of that. Yet every time something _happens_ as a result of your… teasing, you always blame it all on me and act like you… like I… I…. why are you on my lap? Get off my lap,” Ivan sputtered, although he made no physical effort to remove Smerdyakov from where he was perched on his knee.

“And if I don’t, sir?”

“I-I’ll beat you with my belt.”

“Shouldn’t you have already done that by now, sir?”

Damn. He had him there.

“Is this really so bad, sir?” Smerdyakov said quietly, still in a completely innocent tone of voice, as he moved up Ivan’s lap, pressing himself closer to him, pointedly grinding his ass into his crotch but doing it such away that it _almost_ seemed incidental. Ivan groaned, and put one hand over his mouth in a feeble attempt to stop himself.

“Yes…” Ivan said in a weak, muffled voice. And it really was. For one thing, it was generally accepted that Smerdyakov was his half-brother - not that Ivan cared much about that, or indeed thought about it very often. But for another thing, Smerdyakov was _in a dress_ , like that was _completely_ normal, and most of all he was a man (sort of) and Ivan really shouldn’t be-

Wait. Sort of…?

Ivan licked his dry lips nervously, staring at Smerdyakov, who was looking over his shoulder back at him, aware of the fact that Ivan was currently feverishly working something out in his mind and remaining quiet to allow him to do so. What Ivan was thinking was: _If he’s dressed as a woman, then he can’t be properly called a man. And while he’s certainly not a woman, even if he looks like one, the important thing here is that he’s not a man, because if he isn’t a man, that means that there’s nothing particularly… weird about whatever would happen tonight. Hypothetically speaking. And if he can’t be properly considered a man anymore after admitting that he likes to dress up as a woman, that means that, retroactively, every other time with him has also been not… not weird._

And so Ivan reassured himself of his heterosexuality, and marginally calmed down.

“Sir?”

Ivan jumped slightly. “W-What?”

Smerdyakov didn’t say anything, instead twisting around on Ivan’s lap, hiking up his skirt so that he could straddle it, resting his stockinged legs on either side of Ivan’s. All but despite himself, Ivan leaned back a little, but Smerdyakov, again in almost one movement, removed his shawl and threw it over Ivan’s shoulders, pulling on the ends of it to draw Ivan closer to him.

Ivan was beginning to wonder if Smerdyakov had this whole thing planned out. But of course he didn’t. Ivan wasn’t _that_ predictable. (Was he?)

“I can feel you pressing against me, sir.” Hot breath. Right in his ear.

Ivan groaned again.

Was there a point to resisting - even the token resistance Ivan had put up so far? It was unbearable. Smerdyakov was right there, right _here_ , on his lap, pressed against him, the fabric of his dress pooling around him, covering too much and not enough skin. Absolutely unbearable. Simply… and Smerdyakov was mouthing his earlobe now. Ivan made a mental note to check for rouge later.

Disentangling his arms from the shawl, Ivan instead wrapped them around Smerdyakov’s waist, drawing him yet closer and pressing his head against his neck. He noticed that he’d even gone so far as to wear perfume… he couldn’t identify the scent, but it didn’t matter to him. Suddenly irritated by the heady rush the perfume (or at least Ivan was blaming it on the perfume) caused, he bit into Smerdyakov’s neck - sure to leave a bruise.

“Oh, sir-“

“Don’t - don’t talk. You’ll ruin the moment with that mouth of yours.”

“Are there better things I could be doing with my mouth right now, sir?”

“What did I _just_ -?” But Ivan didn’t finish the sentence, because Smerdyakov was sliding off his lap and onto the floor, gently nudging Ivan’s knees apart so he could kneel between them, and sliding his fingers over the top of Ivan’s pants - all so matter-of-factly that it was hard to believe that his intentions were less than… normal. Absent-mindedly, Ivan picked Smerdyakov’s hat up off his head; he was struck with the impulse to crush or rip it, just to see how Smerdyakov would react, but settled for tossing it across the room.

The hat was quickly forgotten as Smerdyakov’s hands slipped into Ivan’s pants and pulled them down, again matter-of-factly. Ivan turned his head away, very determinedly not looking at Smerdyakov, firstly because he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge the way Smerdyakov was pawing at Ivan’s half-hard dick, and secondly because he _was_ sure he didn’t want Smerdyakov to see how red his face was right now - to see how much he was affecting him. This was always a problem.

What wasn’t a problem was Smerdyakov versus Ivan’s cock. Was he just naturally good at this, or did he practice? On what, though? _Do I even_ want _to know_ , Ivan thought, or rather tried to think, as he tangled his fingers in Smerdyakov’s hair. Smerdyakov was currently leaving streaks of red on Ivan’s dick. Alright.

And it wasn’t just Smerdyakov’s mouth, but also his always-moving hands, which sent Ivan over the edge for the first time. Smerdyakov looked up at him, smiling coyly, red lips prettily painted with streaks of semen.

“ _God…_ ” Ivan breathed again.

Smerdyakov stood up and kissed him on the mouth, and Ivan almost too readily parted his lips to taste himself, salty and bitter, on Smerdyakov’s tongue.

How disgusting.

Ivan grabbed him around the neck, prompting a gasp from the latter, and pulled him back onto his lap roughly. He reached under his skirts - finding in the process of doing so that Smerdyakov was wearing under them a chemise and a corset, like he’d previously suspected, and underneath those, loose open-crotched drawers - and pushed aside all the fabric in his way to grab at his prize below. Smerdyakov writhed, first in pleasure as Ivan’s hand brushed up against his cock, and then in pain as the fingers of said hand were shoved rudely into his asshole.

“Oh, _sir_ ,” Smerdyakov whined, panting, for Ivan’s benefit. “Sir, it _hurts_.”

“Good,” Ivan growled. And, blessed (or perhaps cursed) as he was with a short refractory period, the next thing that went up Smerdyakov’s poor, burning ass was Ivan’s dick. Leftover saliva and semen barely served to lubricate its passage.

Smerdyakov cried out, just loud enough that Grigori and Marfa _might_ have heard, and almost tried to draw away, but Ivan pulled down hard, threatening to rip the fabric of his dress. Smerdyakov stilled, whimpering, and Ivan angled his hips upward and began thrusting, his mind blank except vague, savage impulses which he did nothing to ignore.

And it wasn’t like there was anything Smerdyakov could do about it besides cover up the scratches and bitemarks with a scarf the next day.

Or perhaps, as seen the next day, there _was_ something he could do about it… No one had really noticed - or at least commented on - Smerdyakov’s scarf or the slight, painful lilt to his walk, which was good, because the last thing Ivan wanted to get out was word that he’d been fucking the servant boy. Fortunately for him, Smerdyakov kept his mouth shut.

Except for that smug smile when he saw Ivan. The smile that crowed about how he’d made Ivan lose control of himself, _again_ , and this time had even gotten him to go so far as to rationalize the whole nasty affair.

He had to part his lips for that.

**Author's Note:**

> any and all comments will be forewarded to aireyv! i will either copy/paste their reply to me or they will reply on their own account! have a nice day!!! if you have any questions, just ask!!!!


End file.
